The Last Book. A Thriller Read online

  Ben remembered who he was talking to.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr President. How did it happen? I spoke to him only …’

  ‘I know, Ben,’ the President interrupted, gently. ‘He and I talked straight after your call. He went home late and was involved in a hit-and-run right outside his place. I’m really sorry.’

  Ben felt like vomiting.

  ‘Any witnesses, sir?’

  ‘Not yet apparently,’ the President said, ‘although the boys are running a few leads down. It was very late and when his wife, Cara, heard the impact and went outside, the street was deserted.’

  Cara, Ben thought, he had to call her. No, see her.

  ‘What about his driver? Oh, I’m sorry, sir.’

  Ben realized he’d been firing questions at the President of the United States as if he were debriefing a rookie agent.

  ‘No problem Ben, I understand. Juan let his driver go off duty early—something about a grandchild’s birthday. He said he was taking a cab and then walking some of the way. I believe he did that often to clear his head.’

  Ben looked back at the crowd. It was larger and fights appeared to be breaking out in several different places.

  ‘This op then sir, is it still running?’

  ‘It is, Ben,’ the President replied, ‘and it will become more complex, I’m afraid. How are your resources for a major on-going operation?

  Ben thought for only a split second before replying.

  ‘We keep a full-time staff and can expand and contract the network according to demand, sir. We have plenty of people to draw on when and if the proverbial hits the fan.’

  Ben heard a chuckle through the faint hiss of encrypted background sound.

  ‘That’s good. Ben, now I’m going to ask you to put your trust in me. With Juan gone I have to find someone to replace him. But my first question is, are you prepared to take orders from someone in my administration if you know they come directly from me and no-one else?’

  ‘Of course I am sir, but orders? I’m a civilian now, remember,’ Ben said.

  ‘That’s absolutely true, Ben. However, if I use a private contractor for what I have in mind, I could be acting unlawfully, and I’m definitely not going there.’

  ‘So how do we get around that, Mr President?’ Ben asked, completely confused.

  ‘By executive order Ben, that’s how. I’m about to appoint you to the position of special advisor to the President. It’s not a position that requires senate or any other approval and it can be kept pretty much between us.’

  Ben was stunned into silence. Quickly, he gathered his thoughts.

  ‘Where do we go from here then, sir?’

  Ben heard the President sigh.

  ‘First up I’d like you to meet with your go-between and someone I trust implicitly, Lieutenant Commander Sam Hawke—somewhere right off the beaten track I suggest. The less this arrangement gets around the better, and I’m sure a couple of veterans can find somewhere discreet to meet downtown. I’ll have the Lieutenant contact you and get you a letter of appointment too. I want this above board as much as possible but, if push comes to shove, the gloves have to come off. Do you understand me here Ben?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ Ben replied, ‘and thank you.’

  ‘No, it’s me thanking you, Special Advisor Cox. And I suspect we’re going to be playing some dirty pool, so watch out. You also have to know this, there is a great deal of money at stake and we’ll be standing in the way of some very greedy people reaching out for it. Those people are extremely powerful and will do anything to protect their assets. So, be careful who you trust.’

  As Ben ended the call, wondering if the President still wandered out of the oval office to bum a cigarette from his security detail from time to time, the pavement shuddered under his feet. He didn’t even have time turn before a solid blast of air slammed into his spine. Just before a large chunk of concrete bounced off the back of his head, he heard a roaring wind battering his eardrums. And then there was nothing.

  The Boy

  As he grew, he saw less and less of Joey. His brother seldom showed for meals and his bed was hardly used, which suited the boy well. He needed the room.

  On the day before the boy’s seventh birthday, Joey turned up covered in blood. Mom wasn’t home. She was working both day and evening shifts, cleaning back-to-back to make ends meet.

  He’d begun to notice that his clothes were constantly being repaired and his Mom wore the same thing each day—a blue smock, faded by much diligent washing. He saw her only before daylight when they got up together. He watched, eating his cereal, as she wearily prepared their lunches and something for him to eat that night before hurrying off to work. He would then fix the kitchen and do whatever cleaning his Mom left him before heading for school.

  His mother’s only vice, if he could call it that, was a pack of cigarettes a week. She would hide the carefully apportioned treats from Joey, who uncaringly filched a whole day’s supply whenever he found them, despite having plenty of his own.

  ‘It’s supposed to calm my nerves,’ she told him, faithfully reciting some obscure and outdated health article she’d once read. The boy didn’t care. He loved her fiercely and would have given her the world if he could.

  Joey barged past him and into the bathroom.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, as his brother eased his T-shirt off, revealing a savage gash in his side.

  ‘Nuttin’,’ he winced, squeezing two flaps of loose skin together in a vain attempt to stem the blood.

  ‘I can fix that,’ the boy said.

  ‘Can you now,’ his brother sneered, ‘and how the fuck d’ya think you can do that, little man?’

  Before the boy could reply, his brother went pale, a sickly sheen covering his face. He tottered briefly before his legs buckled and he sat heavily on the side of the bath. Without a word the boy left, returning after a minute with his mother’s sewing kit under his arm.

  ‘Jesus,’ his brother whispered, but lifted his arm clear of the wound anyway. ‘I hope the fuck you know what you’re doin’.’

  ‘It needs cleaning,’ the boy said, peering into the jagged chasm.

  ‘Here!’

  Joey dipped into a pocket of his coat, handing him a bottle of cheap boubon.

  ‘Just leave me some to drink. I think I’m gonna need it.’

  After washing the wound thoroughly, the boy threaded the largest needle he could find with the black cotton his Mom used for repairing his jacket. He was an expert threader. Mom spent most Sundays when she had a half day off repairing their clothes. Her eyesight had turned bad in the last year and the boy was happy to ready her needles with the right cotton. She’d even allowed him to have a go at sewing when the light failed towards the end of the day.

  ‘Hold still,’ he ordered.

  Flinching, the boy slid his needle into his brother’s flesh, surprised at how easily it went in. If he expected more blood, he was gratefully disappointed. He was also curious that Joey seemed to feel no pain. Well, not until he had to start drawing the parted flesh together with neat stitches—that did make him scream a bit.

  It took two hours and thirty five stitches to close the wound. By that time Joey was breathing heavily and had thrown up a couple of times. But the look of admiration in his eyes was unmistakable.

  ‘You’ll have a scar,’ the boy said,’ finishing a clumsy but effective dressing, ‘a big ugly one.’

  Joey laughed, taking a final swig from the fifth he’d been sipping on continuously since the stitching begun, and offered it to him. The boy shuddered, shaking his head, and began to clean up the mess. Joey watched his little brother return their mother’s sewing kit to its immaculate condition. His T-shirt was next, scrubbed and hung above the bath to dry. He reached for Joey’s coat, intending to check it for blood, but it was snatched from his hands.

  ‘You done enough, bro,’ he said, clutching the garment to his chest, ‘I gotta go.’

  Joey disappeared int
o their bedroom, emerging a minute or two later with a fresh T-shirt in his hands.

  ‘Here bro,’ he asked, holding out the clothing, ‘I can’t get into it by myself.’

  They struggled together for several minutes until it was done.

  Without thinking, the boy picked up Joey’s coat to help him into it. His brother lunged for it but the pain stopped him. He stood gasping with his hand on his side. The boy felt a heavy weight thud against his thigh and reached down. His eyes widened and he snatched his hand away as he felt the lump.

  ‘Joey!’

  ‘Give it here,’ his brother rasped. ‘I’m just lookin’ after it OK?’

  Joey stopped at the door.

  ‘Thanks bro, just don’t tell Mom, ’specially about the gun, OK? She ain’t well.’

  The boy felt his eyes instantly sting with tears. His Mom not well?

  ‘What do you mean not well?’ he asked, feeling his throat tightening.

  His brother stared at him without speaking. There was a hollow hardness in his eyes he’d never seen before. He took a step towards him but Joey held up his hand.

  ‘Listen bro, remember this. In the top of the closet there’s a box under all my shit. If you don’t see me around for a while, you’ve got to find it and open it—got it?’

  ‘Where are you going?’ the boy yelled. ‘What’s happening? How long’s a while?’

  ‘You’ll know,’ Joey said, closing the door behind him.

  8. New York

  I spy with my little eye

  For the third time, Ethan watched the fireball roll across La Salle. It was hideously clear on his 300 inch plasma screen and each time he saw it, he winced. He’d switched his TV on in response to a curt call from Mark Payne. Ethan could hear the anger in Payne’s response when he explained that he was watching surveillance footage.

  ‘Have you seen it?’ Payne demanded.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jesus, isn’t Marsden’s TV on?’

  ‘No,’ Ethan replied. What the fuck?

  ‘Turn yours on and get back to me in five,’ he growled.

  The bomb, packed into the boot of a Chicago Police Department cruiser had exploded with maximum effect, killing sixty seven people and injuring several hundred more. The TV cameras, set up at the protest, had managed to record and transmit the shocking conflagration as it burst through the crowd before the damaged cameras blinked out. More footage had been salvaged from the security cameras in the street and Ethan wondered how much had already been snaffled by the feds.

  He picked up on the second ring.

  ‘I said to call me back in five minutes Ethan.’

  He felt a surge of anger and then stamped it out of his mind.

  ‘Sorry Mark, I was a bit shocked.’

  ‘Well, get over it, boy. This is good for us …’

  Ethan’s skin went cold.

  ‘Did you …?’ Ethan interrupted before he could stop himself.

  There was an ominous pause before Mark Payne continued, his voice projecting a menace Ethan hadn’t heard before.

  ‘You’re not a two-bit player anymore, boy,’ he growled, ‘you’re with the big boys, remember. This is no time to be squeamish. Don’t forget, most of what we deal in kills a couple of hundred thousand a year, so this is small fry.’

  Ethan could see the old bastard, leaning back in his chair, grinning like a wolf. He’d had this planned and well down the pipeline without revealing so much as a hint. It was a devilish stroke. Ethan realized that this was also a test. He was under the microscope.

  ‘It’s going to singe a few eyebrows. I hope there’s more of the same lined up,’ he said lightly.

  Payne chuckled.

  ‘That’s my boy. Now back to the task in hand. Give Marsden until morning when she’s had a chance to see this shit and then ring her back.’

  Ethan replaced the phone, allowing his breath to release slowly as he stared at the ceiling. Fuck—the audacity of the prick. The scope of his scheme was enormous, almost unbelievable. The man had been preparing for years, and how deep his influence went was anyone’s guess. He tried to imagine how much Payne had spent in money and time, moving stealthily through government and industry circles to nurture his plans. In any other circumstances he would deserve a medal.

  But there would be no medal for Payne. Incalculable power—yes. He would be controlling presidents, prime ministers, and their governments, throughout the world. He would dictate who would fight and what they fought with. Who would live and who would die. One man—ultimate power—the epitome of evil. Who couldn’t be tempted by that?

  9. Sydney

  There is no truth in a whiskey bottle

  Kristen Corsfield, aka the beaky-faced bitch and long-suffering wife of stellar-selling author Zachary Corsfield, stopped her BMW 90T before it stopped her. Within a mere two kilometers from the electronic gates of her home, the normally calm and informative feminine voice of the vehicle’s on-board computer had taken on the persona of an angry fishwife. Not only was she driving at a speed well in excess of the speed limit, she was also sans seat belt, Kristin was informed, something her madam in the box—as she called her driver’s guide—would not tolerate.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, shut up.’

  Kristen dragged her long unruly hair back from her face and, tying it with a simple cheap band, grabbed her purse and left the car, shutting off the voice with a twist of the ignition key. She needed air—sea air—lots of it, and to see a horizon filled with something infinitely more comforting than her husband’s miserable face. And this place was special—a tiny, quiet access road on the cliff top. It overlooked the water and there were no houses—not yet anyway.

  Cara, oh, God, Cara. Gazing out over Sydney harbor’s crystalline waters, and an impossibly deep-blue sky, Kristen’s eyes stung with grief for her friend. Despite the trans-continental distance dividing their homes for most of their lives, she and Cara had been buddies for an eon.

  Kristen turned her pallid face to the warm May sun. There was no sting in its rays this time of year. She missed the sun. Basking on a baking beach just wasn’t the done thing any more, and with a couple of carcinomas already sliced off her back, she was aware of the downsides.

  Not that she and Cara cared a hoot back in their early twenties. It was sizzle sizzle, flip over and sizzle me more, and naked whenever possible. They had the bodies and the nerve.

  But their friendship wasn’t cemented on some exotic beach like ProvidencialesIsland or Boracay. That came later. They would first get to know each surviving at the hands of Peru’s Shining Path guerrillas.

  The rebels had come down from the mountains at dawn. At first, all they needed from the mission were supplies. They were starving, having eluded government troops for weeks. Good strong footwear was next on their shopping list and dos gringos—she and Cara— teaching English for a month in exchange for food and a bed, had trekking boots that represented more than a year’s average wage in a developing country. They offered them readily, naively thrilled at the unscheduled adventure they were having.

  As the guerrillas left, the girls were given their boots back. The rationale became terrifyingly clear when she and Clara were then prodded up the steep mountain track at gunpoint. Keeping the boots and the gringos for a ransom seemed like a much better idea.

  In the ensuing two weeks, the prospect of being raped by a filthy ragtag group of armed rebels kept any thoughts of hunger and cold at bay. As the girls huddled together nightly, trying to keep the insidious Andean chill out of their bones, they listened to talk of recent brutalities committed by both police and insurgents, realizing that it was only a matter of time before they’d probably become victims themselves. Convincing each other that they’d rather die free in the mountains than chance rape and a slim chance of survival, they waited for an opportunity to escape.

  It was raining so heavily when they made their pre-dawn break that they could hardly hear each other through the crashing rain. With the rebel
s cowering under any miserable cover they could find, she and Cara crept hand-in-hand through the camp, and then slipped and slithered back down the same track their group had labored up earlier that evening. They nearly made it.

  As the rain slowed and then stopped, the girls flew down the narrow path. Despite the lack of a decent meal, they were both fit. If they could put a reasonable distance between them and their captors, they stood a chance of stumbling into a village and begging for help. But, just as a watery dawn began to better light their way, they ran into a problem.

  A barrel of a gun they’d later discover was a Kalashnikov AK-47 was pointed straight at them—by a woman. Dressed in a flowing cushma and bareheaded, unlike the rest of her band who wore ski masks, she stared at them levelly.

  ‘Come,’ she said, indicating the path downhill with a slight movement of her weapon.

  The girls looked at each other. They’d heard that the leadership of the Shining Path was well represented by women who were, unfortunately, also regarded as less merciful than their male counterparts. They’d jumped into the fire for sure. Cara lifted her eyebrows a millimeter. The girls had come to know each other extremely over the previous fourteen days and Kristen knew what Cara was thinking. If they both bolted, one of them might make it around the bend and into the thick undergrowth before being gunned down. And, if they didn’t, they’d given it their best shot.

  ‘No, don’t be stupid,’ the guerrilla leader said, evenly, and then smiled. ‘We don’t murder gringos on Sundays. It’s bad for our image.’

  True to her word, the woman took them to a village where they hitched a ride back down the mountain. It was a week later, as they readied to board a plane to Miami that they saw the headlines. The woman, known as la muerte de la mujer—the death woman—had been caught in an ambush by government troops and killed. The woman, the paper said, had murdered more than one hundred and fifty people, including many foreigners, over the past five years. Why Kristen and Cara had been spared, they never found out. But the message was clear.